IM2 The Terra-Cotta Dog (2002)

by Andrea Camilleri

  Before falling asleep, he asked himself a question: If the doctors reassured him that he would recover all his strength, why did he have that lump of sadness in his throat?

  For the first ten minutes he drove apprehensively, paying closer attention to the reactions of his side than to the road. Then, seeing that he was weathering the bumps without difficulty, he accelerated,passed through Vig,took the road to Montelusa, turned left at the Montaperto crossroads, drove another few miles, turned onto an unpaved trail, and pulled up at a small clearing in front of a farmhouse. He got out of the car. Mariannina, Geg sister, who had been his teacher at school, was sitting in a wicker chair beside the front door, fixing a basket. The moment she saw the inspector, she ran up to meet him.

  Salvknew youd come.

  Youre the first person Im visiting since leaving the hospital, said Montalbano, embracing her.

  Mariannina began weeping very softly, without a sound, only tears, and Montalbanos eyes welled up.

  Pull up a chair, said Mariannina.

  Montalbano sat down beside her. She took his hand and began to stroke it.

  Did he suffer?

  No. I realized while they were still shooting that theyd snuffed out Gegn the spot. This was later confirmed. I dont even think he ever realized what was happening.

  Is it true you killed the one who killed Geg

  Yeah.

  Gegill be happy, wherever he is.

  Mariannina sighed and squeezed the inspectors hand a little harder.

  Gegoved you with all his soul.

  Meu amigo de alma, the title of a book, came to Montal- banos mind.

  I loved him, too, he said.

  Do you remember how naughty he was?

  And a naughty boy he was,mischievous,bad. Clearly Mariannina was not referring to recent years, when Gegad his run-ins with the law, but to a distant time when her younger brother was a restless little scamp. Montalbano smiled.

  Do you remember the time he threw a firecracker into a copper cauldron that someone was repairing, and the blast made the poor guy faint?

  And the time he emptied his inkwell into Mrs. Longos purse?

  They talked about Gegnd his exploits for nearly two hours, recounting episodes that never went beyond his adolescence.

  Its getting late, said Montalbano. I should go.

  Id like to tell you to stay for dinner, but what I made is probably too heavy for you.

  What did you make?

  Attuppateddri in tomato sauce.

  Attuppateddri were small light-brown snails which, when they went into hibernation, would secrete a fluid that solidified into a white sheet, which served to closeattuppari

  in Sicilianthe entrance to the shell. Montalbanos first impulse was to decline in disgust. How long would this obsession continue to torment him? In the end, he coolly decided to accept, as a twofold challenge to his stomach and his psyche. With the plate in front of him giving off an exquisite, ochre-colored scent, he had to steel himself, but after extracting the first attuppateddru with a pin and tasting it, he suddenly felt liberated: with the obsession gone and the melancholy banished, there was no doubt the belly, too, would adjust.

  At headquarters he was smothered by embraces. Tortorella even wiped away a tear.

  I know what it means to come back after being shot! said the officer.

  Wheres Augello?

  In his office, your office, said Catarella.

  He opened the door without knocking and Mimeapt out of the chair behind the desk as if hed been caught stealing. He blushed.

  I havent touched anything. Its just that from here, the phone calls

  Mimyou did absolutely the right thing, Montalbano cut him short, repressing the urge to kick him in the ass for having dared to sit in his place.

  I was planning to come to your house today, said Augello.

  To do what?

  To arrange protection.

  Protection? For whom?

  For whom? For you, of course. Theres no saying they wont try again, after coming up empty the first time.

  Youre wrong. Nothing mores going to happen to me. Because, you see, Mimit was you who had me shot.

  Augello turned so red, he looked as though someone had inserted a high-voltage plug up his bum. He started trembling. Then all his blood disappeared God-knows-where, leaving him pale as a corpse.

  Where do you get these ideas? he managed to mutter awkwardly.

  Montalbano reckoned hed sufficiently avenged himself for the expropriation of his desk.

  Calm down, MimThats not what I meant to say. What I meant was: it was you who set the mechanism in motion that led to my shooting.

  Explain yourself, said Augello, collapsing into the chair and dabbing all around his mouth and forehead with his handkerchief.

  You, my good friend, without consulting me, without asking if I agreed or not, put two officers on Ingrassias tail. Did you really think he was so stupid he wouldnt notice? It took him maybe half a day to find out he was being shadowed. And he understandably thought it was me who gave the order. He knew hed fucked up a couple of times and

  that I had him in my sights, and so, to brush up his image for Brancato, who was planning to get rid of himit was you who related their phone conversation to mehe hired two assholes to eliminate me. Except that his scheme turned into a fiasco. By this time Brancato, or somebody else, got fed up with Ingrassia and his brilliant ideasdont forget the pointless little murder of poor Cavaliere Misuracaand so they took matters in hand and made him vanish from the face of the earth. If you hadnt put Ingrassia on his guard, Geg would still be alive and I wouldnt have this pain in my side. And there you have it.

  If thats how things went ...I guess youre right, said Mimannihilated.

  Thats how things went, you can bet your ass on it.

  The plane pulled up very near to the gate, so the passengers didnt need to be shuttled by bus to the terminal. Montalbano saw Livia descend the ramp and walk towards the entrance with her head down. Hiding in the crowd, he watched Livia as she waited interminably for her baggage, collected it, loaded it onto a cart, and then headed towards the taxi stand. They had agreed the night before that she would take the train from Palermo to Montelusa and that he would limit himself to picking her up at the station. At the last minute, however, he had decided to surprise her and show up at Punta Ri airport.

  Are you alone? Need a lift?

  Livia, who was making her way towards the first cab in line, stopped in her tracks and shouted.

  Salvo!

  They embraced happily.

  But you look fantastic! she commented.

  So do you, said Montalbano. Ive been watching you for over half an hour, ever since you got off the plane.

  Why didnt you say something sooner?

  I like seeing how you exist without me.

  They got in the car and immediately Montalbano, instead of starting the ignition, hugged and kissed her, put a hand on her breast and lowered his head, caressing her knees and stomach with his cheek.

  Lets get out of here, said Livia, breathing heavily, or well get arrested for lewd behavior in public.

  On the road to Palermo, the inspector had an idea and made a suggestion.

  Shall we stop in town? I want to show you La Vuccir

  Ive already seen it. In the Guttuso painting.

  Thats a shitty painting, believe me. Well book a hotel room, hang out a little, walk around, go to La Vuccir get some sleep, and head back to Vig tomorrow morning. I dont have any work to do, in any case, so I can consider myself a tourist.

  Once inside the hotel, they failed in their intention to wash up quickly and go out. They did not go out. They made love

  and fell asleep. Then they woke up and made love again. When they finally left the hotel it was already getting dark.

  They went to La Vuccir Livia was shocked and overwhelmed by the shouts, the exhortations, the cries of the merchants calling out their wares, the speech, the arguments, the sudden brawls, t
he colors so bright they seemed unreal, painted. The smell of fresh fish mingled with that of tangerines, boiled lamb entrails sprinkled with caciocavallo cheese, a dish called ma, and fritters, all of them fusing into a unique, almost magical whole.

  Montalbano stopped in front of a used-clothing shop.

  In my university days, when I used to come here to eat ma and bread, which today would only make my liver burst, this shop was the only one of its kind in the world. Now they sell used clothing, but back then the shelves were empty, all of them.The owner, Don Cesarino, used to sit there behind the counterwhich was also completely bareand receive clients.

  Clients? But the shelves were all empty.

  They werent exactly empty. They were, well, full of purpose, full of requests. The man sold stolen goods to order. Youd go to Don Cesarino and say: I need a certain kind of watch; or, I want a painting, say, a nineteenth-century dock scene; or, I need this or that sort of ring. Hed take your order, write it down on a piece of pasta paper, the rough, yellow kind we used to have, hed negotiate the price and then tell you when to come back. On the appointed date, and not

  one day later, he would pull the requested merchandise out from under the counter and hand it over to you. All sales were final.

  But what need was there for him to have a shop? I mean, he could have done that sort of business anywhere, in a cafon a street corner...

  You know what his friends in La Vuccirused to call him? Don Cesarino u puti, the shop-owner. Because Don Cesarino didnt see himself as a front man, as they might call him today, nor as a receiver of stolen goods. He was a shopkeeper like any other, and his shopfor which he paid rent and electricitywas proof of this. It wasnt a fae.

  Youre all insane.

  Like a son! Let me hug you like a son! said the headmas- ters wife, squeezing him to her breast and holding him there.

  You have no idea how worried you had us! said the husband, echoing her sentiments.

  Headmaster Burgio had phoned him that morning to invite him to dinner. Montalbano had declined, suggesting he drop by in the afternoon instead. They showed him into the living room.

  Lets get right to the point, Burgio began, we dont want to take up too much of your time.

  I have all the time in the world, being unemployed for the moment.

  My wife told you, when you were here that time for dinner, that I call her a woman of fantasy. Well, right after you left, she started fantasizing again. We had wanted to call you sooner, but then what happened happened.

  Suppose we let the inspector decide whether or not theyre fantasies? the signora said, slightly piqued, before continuing in a polemical tone: Shall you speak, or shall I?

  Fantasies are your domain.

  I dont know if you still remember, but when you asked my husband where you could find Lillo Rizzitano, he answered that he hadnt had any news of him since July 1943. Then something came back to me: that a girlfriend of mine also disappeared during that period. Except that I actually heard from her a while later, but in the strangest way...

  Montalbano felt a chill run down his spine. The two lovers of the Crasticeddru had been murdered very young.

  How old was this friend of yours?

  Seventeen. But she was a lot more mature than me. I was still a little girl. We went to school together.

  She opened an envelope that was on the coffee table, took out a photograph, and showed it to Montalbano.

  This was taken on our last day of school, our final year. Shes the first one on the left in the back row, and thats me next to her.

  All smiling and wearing the Fascist uniforms of the Giovani Italiane. The teacher was giving the Roman salute.

  Since the situation in Sicily was becoming too dan

  gerous with all the bombing, schools closed on the last day in April, and we were spared the dreaded final exam. We passed or failed solely on the basis of our grades. Lisetta that was my friends name, Lisetta Moscatomoved to a little inland village with her family. She wrote to me every other day, and I still have all her letters, at least the ones that arrived. The mail in those days, you know...My family also moved out; we went all the way to the mainland, to live with one of my fathers brothers. When the war was over, I wrote to my friend at both addresses, the one in the inland village and the one in Vig. But she never wrote back, and this worried me. Finally, in late 46, we returned to Vig, and I looked up Lisettas parents. Her mother had died, and at first her father didnt want to see me. Then he was rude to me and said Lisetta had fallen in love with an American soldier and gone away with him, against her familys wishes. And he added that as far as he was concerned, his daughter might as well be dead.

  That does seem plausible, frankly, said Montalbano.

  What did I tell you? the headmaster cut in triumphantly.

  But you see, Inspector, the whole thing was strange just the same, even without counting what happened later. Its strange because, first of all, if Lisetta had fallen in love with an American soldier, she would have let me know in any way possible. And second, because in the letters she sent me from Serradifalcothat was the name of the village where theyd taken refugeshe kept harping on the same theme: the tor

  ment she suffered being separated from a mysterious young man with whom she was terribly in love, whose name she would never tell me.

  Are you sure this mysterious lover really existed? Might he not have been some girlish fantasy?

  Lisetta wasnt the type to indulge in fantasies.

  You know, said Montalbano, at age seventeen, and even later, you can never swear by matters of the heart.

  Put that in your pipe and smoke it, said the headmaster.

  Without saying a word, the signora extracted another photo from the envelope. It showed a young woman in bridal dress, giving her arm to a good-looking boy in a U.S. Army uniform.

  This came to me from New York in early 1947, according to the postmark.

  And this, in my opinion, dispels all doubt, the headmaster concluded.

  Not at all. If anything, it raises doubt.

  In what sense, signora?

  Because it was the only thing that came in the enve- lopeonly this photograph of Lisetta and the soldier, nothing else, no note, nothing. Not even any writing on the back of the photo; you can see for yourself. So, can you explain to me why a true, intimate friend would send me only a photograph without writing a single word?

  Did you recognize your friends handwriting on the envelope?

  The address was typed. Ah, said Montalbano. And one last thing: Elisa Moscato and Lillo Rizzitano

  were first cousins. And Lillo really loved her, like a little

  sister. Montalbano looked at the headmaster. He adored her, Burgio admitted.

  19

  The more he mulled it over, circled round it, snuck up beside it, the more convinced he became that he was on the right track. He hadnt even needed his customary meditative walk to the end of the jetty. Upon leaving the Burgio house with the wedding photo in his pocket, hed raced off directly to Montelusa.

  Is the doctor in?

  Yes, but hes busy. Ill let him know youre here, said the custodian.

  Pasquano and his two assistants were standing around the marble table, on top of which lay a naked corpse with eyes agape. And the dead man had good reason to look so wide- eyed,as if in surprise, since the three were drinking a toast with paper cups. The doctor had a bottle of spumante in his hand.

  Come on in, were celebrating.

  Montalbano thanked the assistant, who handed him a cup, and Pasquano poured him a finger or two of the sparkling wine.

  To whose health? asked the inspector.

  To mine. With this guy here, Ive just performed my thousandth autopsy. Montalbano drank up, called the doctor aside, and showed him the photograph. Do you think the dead girl from the Crasticeddru could have had a face like this one? Would you please go fuck yourself ? Pasquano gently

  asked. Sorry, said the inspector. He turned on his heels and left. He was the
asshole, not

  the doctor. Hed let himself get carried away by his enthusiasm and had gone and asked Pasquano the most idiotic question imaginable.

  He had no better luck at the crime lab. Is Jacomuzzi in? No, hes at the commissioners office. Whos in charge of the photography lab? De Francesco, in the basement. De Francesco eyed the photo as if he hadnt yet learned

  that one could reproduce images on light-sensitive film. What do you want me to do? Tell me if you think its a photomontage. Ah, thats not my game. I only know about taking pic

  tures and developing them. The more difficult stuff we send to Palermo.

  Then the wheel turned in the right direction, and things started falling into place. Montalbano phoned the photographer of the magazine that had published the review of Mar- aventanos book, whose name he remembered.

  Sorry to trouble you. Is this Mr. Contino?

  Yes, it is. Whos speaking?

  This is Inspector Montalbano. I need to talk to you about something.

  Pleased to make your acquaintance. You can come right now, if you like.

  The photographer lived in the old part of Montelusa, in one of the few houses to survive a landslide that had done away with an entire quarter, one that bore an Arab name.

  Actually, Im not a photographer by profession. I teach history at the lyceum, and I love it. How can I be of help to you?

  Do you think you could tell me if this photograph is a montage?

  I could try, said Contino, examining the photo. When was it taken, do you know?

  Around 1946, Im told.

  Come by again tomorrow.

  Montalbano hung his head and said nothing.

  Is it very urgent? Ill tell you what: I can give you a preliminary answer in, say, two hours, but Ill need more time to confirm it.

  Its a deal.

  The inspector spent the two hours in an art gallery that was featuring a show by a seventy-year-old Sicilian painter still caught up in a sort of populist rhetoric, but felicitous in his intense and lively use of color. Yet he lent only a distracted eye to the paintings, as he was impatient for Continos answer. Every five minutes he looked at his watch.